CHAPTER TWO

“Revenge is a dish best served in heels and a blazer—preferably with coffee in one hand and a resignation letter in the other… just in case.” – Chaavi Mehra

4:45 PM – Office Lounge

The staff was gathered in the lounge for an impromptu birthday celebration for one of the creative heads. Balloons. Cake. Awkward singing.

Chaavi had just taken a big bite of pineapple pastry when someone whispered behind her—

“Is she really Mr. Kapoor’s secretary or the courier girl who never left?”

A few stifled laughs followed.

She turned, blinking.

A tall, high-heeled intern with contour sharper than Ruhan Kapoor's jawline looked her up and down. “That kurti looks... vintage,” she said sweetly. “Is it from your college days?”

Chhavi smiled, still chewing. “Thank you. I did go to college before this century.”

The girl blinked.

“But you’re not exactly the ‘Kapoor & Co.’ aesthetic, are you?” another intern chimed in. “More… Kapoor & Chaotic?”

The laughter grew.

And that’s when it happened.

Chaavi stepped backward, accidentally tugging the hem of her long kurti...

RRRIIIIIP.

A clean tear. Not too long, but right down the side seam of her kurti. Just enough to reveal the bright red polka-dot shorts she was wearing underneath.

Shorts.

With strawberries.

There was a full beat of silence before the room exploded in laughter.

Even Ruhan—who had entered just in time to witness the scene—froze mid-step.

Chhavi turned slowly.

Eyes met.

And then she said, very calmly:

“I'm launching a new office trend. Called ‘Strawberry Power Pants.’ Catch up, fashion peeps.”

And walked out—head high, dignity somewhere between the copier and the leftover cake.

9:15 PM – Chaavi’s Apartment, Mumbai

The door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell like a curtain.

Chaavi Mehra stood in the dim hallway, her shoes kicked off without care, her dupatta crumpled in her grip. Her reflection in the mirror showed traces of the day she wished she could erase—the whispers, the glares, the click of camera phones when her dress betrayed her at the birthday party.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

But her jaw was tight. Her fingers, clenched.

She dropped her phone on the kitchen counter, eyes blank. Then, suddenly, as if remembering something, she picked it up again and dialed.

“Harsh?”

His voice came groggy. “What the hell, Meow? It’s past nine—”

“Meet me there in thirty. Don’t make me wait.”

The line went dead.

No explanations. No jokes.

Only adrenaline.

She strode to the wardrobe, yanked open the hidden side compartment, and there it was—the black leather suit. Zipped, gleaming, and untouchable. Like armor.

Within minutes, she was out the door.

She wasn’t supposed to race today. But after the humiliating birthday, the coffee spill, the wardrobe malfunction, the taunts—something inside Chaavi had snapped.

9:45 PM – Shared Basement Parking

In the dim underground lot, her footsteps echoed like a countdown. She stopped in front of the farthest bay, covered in tarps and dust. One sharp yank—and a sleek, matte-black Ducati stood revealed.

Not hers.

But the only thing that ever listened to her.

She strapped on the helmet. No face. No name. No past.

Just Viper.

10:20 PM – Underground Racing Circuit, Mumbai Outskirts

Harsh, her oldest friend, had seen her at her worst—ice cream crying, helmet tantrums, Excel-induced panic attacks. But tonight? He saw something else.

“You okay?” he asked as she pulled on her gloves.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

The roar of engines. The smoke of fuel. The hunger of watchers pressed against rusted fencing.

Everyone turned when the bike rolled in.

Viper.

The silent legend. No one had seen her face. No one had dared beat her yet.

Someone revved beside her.

A tall man in red gloves stepped forward, cocky smirk beneath his tinted visor. “Heard the queen’s back. How about we un-crown her?”

“You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?” he smirked.

She tilted her helmet slightly. “Sweetheart might just leave you in the dust.”

She straddled the bike, fingers flexing once. Challenge accepted.

Engines growled.

Lights dropped.

And in a blur of neon and smoke, they were off.

The city blurred. The track twisted. But she didn’t. Every turn she took was deliberate, calculated. Like her heart had synced with the machine.

And when she cut the final corner, trailing fire behind her, there was no question—

She won. Again.

She removed the helmet only when the crowd couldn’t see, back near the trailers. Harsh passed her a water bottle, still speechless.

“You ever gonna tell anyone?” he asked softly.

She wiped her face. “What’s the point? No one ever listens to Chhavi Mehra.”

“But they remember Viper.”

She looked away, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “Exactly.”

NEXT MORNING – 8:58 AM, Kapoor & Co.

The elevator doors slid open.

And silence fell in the lobby.

Four-inch heels clicked on marble, sharp and steady like war drums. She walked in dressed in all black—tailored power suit, sleek ponytail, blood-red lips. Not a wrinkle in sight. Not a pause in her step.

But it wasn’t just the look.

It was the energy.

People turned. Whispered.

Same girl. Different aura.

Deadlier.

She didn’t even glance at the reception. Her ID card dangled off her pocket as she strode straight toward the elevators like the whole damn company owed her answers.

Inside, the office buzz stopped like someone had pulled the plug.

Ruhaan looked up.

And for a second—just a second—his mind blanked.

Because this wasn't his annoying intern.

This was a woman who owned every eye in the room.

Unbothered. Undistracted. Untouchable.

She passed by his glass cabin.

Didn’t even spare him a glance.

And just like that—Kapoor & Co. had a new storm brewing.

And it wore heels......

By now, the office had entered Phase 2: The Gossip Spiral.

“Is that really Chhavi?”

“She’s got lip tint on!”

“Did she… steam her clothes? Since when?”

Meanwhile, Chhavi sat at her desk, focused. Clicking through emails. Cross-checking data.

And then she spilled coffee.

On herself.

In slow motion.

White blazer. Brown splash. Direct hit.

She froze.

Everyone else froze.

And then she calmly stood, wiped it off, and said, “On the bright side, now I match the aesthetic of my boss: emotionally bitter with hints of espresso.”

People blinked.

Then giggled.

She was still her.

Just... shinier.

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